


give me a chance, i'll make a

by snsk



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, HAPPY BIRTHDAY HARRY, M/M, it is sad but pls it gets happy, my sense of chronology is fucked up ignore technicalities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 00:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snsk/pseuds/snsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>January 28th, 2014 - February 1st, 2014</p>
            </blockquote>





	give me a chance, i'll make a

**Author's Note:**

> for bean and shebber and jenica
> 
> EDIT: wtf this is so bad

IV.

Four days before Harry's birthday, Nick Grimshaw's name flashed up at Louis, over and over again. 

Incoming call, the screen read. Accept/Decline.

Louis debated not answering it. Curiosity won him over, as always. One never knew; Nick could be in dire straits, urgently requiring help that Louis would rather stab himself in the dick than give. The opportunity of rejection and the chance of being an utter twat sealed it. "Yeah."

"Daaarling," Nick drawled, "I must know-- what would one prefer for the streamers? Purple, or a light fun pink?"

He waited patiently for Louis' answer.

"You're joking," Louis said.

"Certainly not, love. Streamers do set the tone so."

Nick's voice had this habit of becoming all slow posh upper-class idiot when he talked to Louis. Louis felt like ripping out his vocal chords.

"Why are you asking me? Ask his mum," Louis snapped. "You're on very good terms with her, obviously."

Nick tsked, and didn't rise to the bait. "Purple or pink, babe," he said, instead.

Louis took a deep breath in, and exhaled it slowly. Another-- steady-- one-- in, and fuck Zayn, this was not working at all. Fuck relaxation techniques, fuck Nick Grimshaw and his nauseating terms of endearment, and most of all, fuck Harry Styles, gone and fucked off to god knew where, USA.

"Purple," he gritted out, "love," and punched the red button so hard the screen clicked out a tappy protest.

He threw the phone onto the other end of the sofa, dialed the volume on the tv up really high, and settled in to watch Celebrity Big Brother, one show where idiots on television behaved worse than idiots in real life.

At four, he got a tinkle, signalling a snapchat. It was of a gorgeous, intricately designed surfboard, in a stupid hipster shop somewhere sunny, god knew where USA. The caption read, Y/n? and a blue heart emoji.

Louis didn't reply. He didn't see the point. What was his snap going to be of: his pyjamaed legs, propped up on the coffee table where they'd stayed for the past two hours while Linda and Jim had it out in the background? Captioned no, fuck off because Louis was alone in London and Harry was in sunnyville, postcode american dream? Or yes, anything, pls come home? 

Whatever, right?

He drove to Doncaster that night, earlier than he was originally planning to, and crawled into Daisy's bed, breathing her soft strawberry shampoo in. She kicked him hard on accident when she turned to sleepily burrow herself into his arms, somehow knowing her brother was back, and Louis smiled for the first time that day.

Right before he drifted off, his phone beeped a "goodnight... Love you. Xx" even though it was probably seven am in good ol' god knew where, America.

 

III.

"You're not staying today?" his mum asked over breakfast. "You just got here."

Louis shifted in his seat. "Told you I have that skiing thing today," he said. "Be back later, by night."

She nodded. "Right, with El," she said approvingly. Louis stifled an eye roll at how much better his mum got along with Eleanor than he did. It wasn't that he disliked her or anything, even. "Remember to ask her about the soap!"

"Right," Louis said, deciding not to tack on: what soap. "I'll remember."

His mum put down her toast suddenly and stared at him. 

"You'll be okay today, won't you, love?" she asked, doing that thing where she got all perceptive out of nowhere. 

Louis was forcefully reminded of the first time he'd brought Harry home, introducing him briefly as "this curly idiot over here is Harry, you may vaguely remember him as the guy I kept being forced to sing on the same stage with," and everything had been fine and dandy until two hours in, when his mum had smiled across at them from the other sofa and asked how long they'd been together.

 

"You have friends coming along?" his mum continued. "Don't you?"

"Yeah, Mum," Louis said. "Fred and Al're going, haven't seen them in ages. Should be a right laugh."

His mum nodded. She looked like she was about to say more, maybe ask something about-- well, but Daisy chose that moment to squeal a high-pitched yowl because Phoebe had gotten jam in her braid.

 

"You're not very good at skiing, are you?" Louis asked, face frozen and stuck in an amused smirk. Falling was funny, sue him.

Eleanor glared up at him from the snow. "Be a gentleman and help me up," she demanded, so Louis proffered a gentlemanly hand. Which she proceeded to ignore, vaulting up, dusting herself off thoroughly, and grabbing her skis.

"Race you down the slope," she yelled, narrowly missing a sharply-branched tree by centimeters.

Louis didn't hate Eleanor. He made it plain when he hated things. He wasn't sure where the idea he hated her came from. He could see the meta now: look at his face when he's around her!!! he looks MISERABLE.

It was just. Snowy days like this, with the biting wind and the slippery slide, it reminded him of another holiday altogether, hot chocolate and warm fireplace and Louis' hands on nervous shoulders, coaxing him: "just a step, babe, you're not going to fall, I've got you."

Louis shut his eyes, tight. He pushed himself over the slope like that, without looking.

 

It turned out good, the skiing trip. Fred and Al did come, and Louis took the obligatory photos and then drank eggnog with them and discussed the possibility of Matt being in a real-life BDSM novel, as he always went back early nowadays and there were rumours he was getting it on with his boss. It was later than he expected when he looked out the window. The sky was dusky orange-grey, striped.

"That's pretty. Look, El. Instagram it, or something."

Eleanor went to stand beside him. "Wrong Instagram user, babe. I do Starbucks and selfies."

"Right," said Louis, a word he seemed to be using a lot today. "Right."

Eleanor smiled at him kindly. "Tell Jay I've got her the jasmine and the citrus, they didn't have the rose she likes."

"What-- soap, right," said Louis sheepishly. "Hey. You're a good one, El."

"Yeah, I'd like to think so," she said, contemplatively. She patted him on the arm, and drifted off to talk to Max.

 

Back in Doncaster, Louis watched Frozen for possibly the six hundredth time with his sisters. Or-- Lottie and Fizzy were texting, and his mum was snoring softly, and the twins had fallen asleep a long time ago, so it was possibly just him, watching Frozen, still with just as much interest and passion as the first time (read: sing a longs and frantic gasping at the unveiling of the villain).

Goodnight! came the text at eleven. i saw a guy throw up westside today. Think he might have gotten arrested. I love you xx

Louis hesitated, but the movie had stirred up all his ice cold emotions or something, and he replied: wrongful .he should sue x

 

When Jay had asked the question, Louis had gone wide-eyed, blushed and stuttered a bit in panic. Harry, on the other end, had broken into a wide, happy smile, all dimple and teeth, and told her truthfully that it had been six months, and was she okay with it?, worrying that lower lip of his between his teeth.

And Jay had said, Oh, love, don't worry, It's the sweetest thing. Look at him now, he's gone speechless! and Harry had poked him playfully and said, Think we broke him, Jay.

Think Harry broke him, mum.

 

II.

There are pictures of Nick Grimshaw wearing Harry's ridiculous black and white heart-patterned shirt on the Internet.

Funny Story About That Shirt #1:  
Their stylist for the photoshoot is indisposed for a bit and so they're mucking around in wardrobe, and Liam is trying on glittery pants in different sizes and Zayn is curled up peacefully in a heap of feathery neckwear and Niall is trying on a belt that looks like a snake and is probably trying to think of the perfect pun about his dick and snakes.

Harry has disappeared into the closet--  a joke that's gone ha dee fucking ha at this point-- and Louis is not really interested in this shoot at all, running on lack of sleep and too-sweet tea, thank you Harry. He knows waking up from a too-short nap will make him crankier, so he focuses on making snarky borderline-bitchy remarks on the outrageous outfits Harry walks out with.

Harry's choosing the outfits so Louis can have an outlet. Louis knows that. Louis loves this boy so much his pancreas shivers sometimes, yeah, and there's a reason he doesn't write poetry.

So Harry comes out with this over the top coquettish look on his face, right, and that fucking heart-splattered shirt, tight over his chest, and he's found and somehow managed to squeeze into a matching black almost mini-skirt.

And Louis opens his mouth and nothing mean comes out, and Harry flutters his eyelashes prettily and says, "Well?" and Louis fucks him against the closet door in that shirt with the skirt dropped to his ankles and Louis' hand muffling the lovely whines.

And the photoshoot goes much better after that, really, as little sleep as Louis' gotten.

 

Funny Story About That Shirt #2:

He wears it to their movie premiere months later, and he knows exactly what he's doing when he comes down the stairs, the buttons straining at his chest, a jacket slung over his arm.

Louis blinks up at him, slices of memory flashing slutty and lovely in his mind's eye. "I thought they picked out another one for you."

Harry shrugs. "I decided to go with this one," he says, smirking innocently-- that is a thing, a thing Harry Styles can do-- at Louis, walking past him ou the door. He knows exactly what he's doing. The limo purrs in greeting, one sleek defined creature to another.

"Harry," he says, helplessly.

"Louis," Harry mimics, low and rough, and winks before sliding in, a promise for later.

The thing is. Louis is the one that'll soothe the boys' frazzled hyped-up nerves in the car. He'll invent a stupid game, make them all play it and it'll take their minds off the thought of people circling in to rip the movie apart. He'll crack stupid jokes and swoop in to defend them from offensive interviewers if necessary. He'll watch out for them.

Louis is the one keeping the boys right. Harry is the one who's keeping Louis focused.

Funny Story About That Shirt #3:  
"That thing won me a thung," Harry slurs, eyes dark and out of focus. "A shiny thung." He frowns, suddenly grabbing messily at Louis' front. "Lou? Where's my shiny thung?"

So Harry's won an award for, like, fashion icon or some ridiculous shit, and he's insisting that it's due to the fuckin' shirt. Louis sighs.

"In the cabinet where we keep our other shiny thungs. Drink this."

Harry gulps it up obediently, eyes fixed trustingly on Louis as it goes down.

"Lou? Where's, where the shirt. How'm I g'na, like. Win things without shirt."

"In our closet, Haz," says Louis, soothingly. "Go to sleep."

He tips Harry back onto the pillows. Harry smiles dopily up at him.

"Love you," Harry says, very sincerely. "Alway- ways takin' the best care of me."

 

I.

The day before Harry's birthday, the Midnight Memories video came out. 

Louis vaguely remembered freezing his arse off on a cold night weeks ago, the fur collar of their-- his, his, his, not their-- denim jacket turned up against the wind. By the time they'd filmed most of the rest of the video and ended up on the bridge, he was tiredly shivering, trying not to shiver, and dipping his cold fingers in the space between Liam's jacket and his skin.

Liam yelped, and almost fell into the water.

"Louis!" one of the camerawomen snapped in his ear.

"Just a joke, babe," he said. 

"Few more takes," said Ben, and Harry chirped an "Okay!"

Louis glared at his profile. Harry turned to him, as if feeling the burn, and started shrugging off his huge overcoat.

"What-- no, don't," Louis said, rolling his eyes.

"You're cold," Harry said, simply. "Look, no. You were cold before, but you're freezing now."

"'m not cold," Louis said. He was pretty sure his lips were, like, blue, but semantics. "Fuck off with your, fuck-k-cking gallantry."

Harry just smiled at him, sweet, and draped the coat over Louis' shoulders. Even his proximity was enough to warm him, actually. Louis didn't need the coat.

Louis huffed and pushed his arms into it. It smelled like being taken care of, like three years of that fond spread-out smile.

 

Goodnight Lou, the night's text read. Xxxxx

gnight, Louis typed. keep warm idiot 

Which was irrelevant, since god knew where, USA was probably steamy as fuck, but Harry replied:

Take your own advice!

and an even more completely irrelevant hammer emoji. 

 

0.

Harry's birthday dawned grey and quiet. Louis woke up slowly, and stretched, and sighed. Contemplated reaching for his phone. Contemplated not reaching for his phone. Contemplated lying in bed all day. Contemplated conducting all future performances via Skype.

"Hi," said Harry, from the chair beside Louis' bed.

"Wagh--!" Louis replied, intelligibly, and flailed his blanketed limbs.

He gathered his wits. "Have you been watching me sleep? You creepy freak."

"I haven't!" Harry protested. Upon further inspection, his clothes looked rumpled and the spaces under his eyes looked bruised. "Well, only for a bit. I've been asleep too."

"You slept in the chair?"

Harry hesitated. "I didn't want to just, you know, crawl in. I didn't know-- yeah. And Jay sent me up here."

"What time did you get here?" Louis asked suspiciously.

"Two?" Harry said.

Louis thought about this. "You're here."

Harry smiled, slow and questioning. "I guess so."

"On your birthday," Louis said.

"Suppose it is," Harry agreed.

"I'm not wishing you anything," Louis told him.

Harry nodded. "That's okay."

Louis bit his lip for a moment. He lifted the blanket. "Come on, then."

Harry climbed in immediately, long limbs and warm skin, and cautiously arranged himself to face Louis.

His eyes were very green, up close. Louis always forgot how very.

He sighed, and closed the last distance of space between them, and burrowed his face into Harry's chest, inhaling. One of Harry's big palms came to rest on Louis' waist, and Louis could hear, hear and feel his own slow deep exhale, like a prayer.

 

"Isn't Nick throwing you a party?" Louis asked, deliberately sliding the side of his shoe against the gravel for the crunch crunch crunch. The other leg was slung across the side of the park bench. His head was in Harry's lap.

Harry shook his head, carded his fingers gently through Louis' fringe, styling it into something stupid. "Nah, it's for Daisy. I told him I was coming here."

Louis said: "Fuck." He thought about the phone call, and the mess of emotions running alongside it. "He just wanted to fucking mess with my head, didn't he."

Harry sounded apologetic. "I don't know what he did, but probably, yeah."

"One of these days, I'm going to castrate Nick Grimshaw with my bare hands," Louis said cheerily. 

"Okay," Harry said. 

"I mean it," Louis insisted. 

"I'd come with you, you know," Harry said, soft.

Louis said: "Oh."

And he'd go right then, but Harry's fingers were long and strong and lovely, and the sun was very warm.

 

On Harry's birthday, they rested a lot and strolled a little and breathed each other in and ate the cake Daisy and Phoebe helped bake. They watched a French movie and Skyped Harry's family and groupchatted the boys. They fed the ducks and spray painted Al's window and filled up the tank with petrol. They talked about Things that had gone too long unsaid and forgave other Things that had festered too much. They were quiet, and loud and laughy and stupid, and they touched because they wanted to.

Harry's 20th birthday, it was good.

At night, when they had only four hours left, Louis said, "Hang on," and typed out a series of tweets, Harry nosing at his shoulder.

"Somebody's leaving their troubled adolescence behind today, but I can't recall who," he said to Harry, tossing the phone onto his bedside table. "It can't be you. I only give blowjobs to teenage twinks."

"It's not me," Harry agreed, making a small, happy noise into Louis' mouth, and a lower, deeper one into the silence of the bedroom as Louis shimmied lower down, down.

 

The clock struck midnight and the second of February dawned, and Louis grinned wide.

"Happy birthday, Harry," he said, into his boy's sleeping skin.

He snuggled closer, and then he went to sleep, too.


End file.
